


directional terms

by tgrsndshrks



Category: You Me At Six
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Roleplay - Teacher and Student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgrsndshrks/pseuds/tgrsndshrks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>max is failing physiology. alternately, max gets fucked on mr. franceschi's desk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	directional terms

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer, josh is not a physiology teacher etc etc

Max has been carefully calculating this for weeks, mindfully deciding which assignments to skip and which to do, which tests to flunk and which to ace. It'd been a complicated balance, but when his name is called by his physiology teacher after the bell rings, he knows it's finally paid off.

“Max,” Mr. Franceschi's voice goes.

Max tries to keep the stupid grin off his face as he walks over, his bag slung lazily over his shoulder. “Hey Franceschi,” he says.

“Max,” Mr. Franceschi says again, “why has your grade dropped so much? I know you can learn the material, but you seem to choose not to do the work.”

 _Exactly_ Max thinks, but that's not what he says.

“Mr. Franceschi, I've just had so much going on, I've...” Max's voice trails off. “I don't know. I guess I don't understand directional terms.”

“Oh,” Mr. Franceschi says. “Well some of them are really simple.” He stands and walks over to the class skeleton, wheeling it back over. Max can't help but appreciate his casual Friday attire. Well-fitting jeans, Vans, and a button-up shirt with the cuffs bunched up around his elbows. Mr. Franceschi turns the skeleton sideways so Max sees it in profile. “Which part of the body is dorsal and which is ventral?”

Max stares at the skeleton. He'd learned this. “Uh, the front is ventral and the back is dorsal. I think,” he says.

“Good,” Mr. Franceschi says. “You can remember that because the dorsal fin of a fish or marine mammal is on its back.” Max nods, only half-listening even as the late bell to his next class period rings. Mr. Franceschi didn't have a class this period and was always generous about writing passes so Max isn't worried about that.

 _Your amazing ass is dorsal to the cock I want in my mouth,_ Max thinks.

“I mean, I guess... I dunno.”

“Well, let's try superior and inferior,” Mr. Franceschi says. “Are my hands superior or inferior to my knees?”

“Uh,” Max says. “Well, it'd depend which position you were...”

“Max, remember, we're always speaking about anatomical position.” Mr. Franceschi stands with his legs a bit apart and his arms out a bit, palms forward. “So are my hands superior or inferior to my knees?”

“Inferior?” Max asks. Mr. Franceschi shakes his head.

“Max, I think what you ought to do is read the chapter regarding directional terms,” he sighs. “They aren't very hard to memorize once you've figured out the first few.” Max makes a face.

“I'm horrible at memorizing though,” he says.

“Remember the little tricks, like remembering dorsal and ventral by thinking about the dorsal fin of a fish. Or proximal and distal,” Mr. Franceschi says. He steps back to the skeleton, holding out one of its arms. “The hand is distal. The shoulder is proximal. The hand is distant from the body. Distal, distant.” Mr. Franceschi frowns at Max's blank face. “Max, what's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Max lies. Actually, there are a lot of things wrong, like how distracted he is by everything Mr. Franceschi ever even does. Like the way his fingers hold the skeleton's hands, or how he makes this little irritated face as he rolls the skeleton back into its corner.

“Alright Max,” Mr. Franceschi says, “I guess I could...” his voice drops off and he seems to have a thought, “offer you an extra credit opportunity.”

Max's eyes widen a bit and he smiles. “Could you add it to my test grade?” he asks. “Because that's where I'm doing the worst, and it counts the most on our grade aside from the final, and-”

“I'll give you an automatic A on the final. Just come back after school.” Mr. Franceschi smirks. He smirks. Max blinks. Wait. Oh. Oh. Okay. Mr. Franceschi can tell Max has figured it out. “I mean, if that's alright with you.”

Max considers it for a moment. “An automatic A on the final? Which is 25 percent of our grade?” he ask. Mr. Franceschi nods. Max nods back. “I'll be here eighth period then.” Mr. Franceschi smiles.

“I'll see you then,” he says. He grabs his passes and Max rocks on his feet, his weight on his heels then up to his toes, then back again.

“I almost feel bad for this,” Mr. Franceschi says, “but not really.” He smiles and so does Max. “Hope you don't mind it on the desk. It's always been kind of a thing of mine.” Max chews the inside of his cheek to keep from making a noise as Mr. Franceschi writes his pass.

“Of course not,” Max says. He makes sure his jeans are pulled up right under his bum, making it look particularly nice, and Mr. Franceschi doesn't do a thing to hide how obviously he's staring as Max walks out the door and leaves to go to Economics.

x

Max arrives at Mr. Franceschi's classroom approximately three and a half minutes after the dismissal bell rings. His last class is only a few rooms down but he hadn't wanted to seem too eager, so he lingered in his European History class for a few minutes, skimming one of his teacher's books on the French Revolution.

When Max opens the door, Mr. Franceschi is working on his laptop. He looks up and there's Max, putting his backpack on the floor and padding nervously over to his teacher's desk.

“Hi,” Max says.

“Hey,” Mr. Franceschi says. “Let me lock the doors. Hop up on the counter for me in the meantime.”

Max has to use a stool to get a little lift but he sits on the counter in the front of the classroom. There's a little space cleared, but around him there's a model of a plant cell and a fake plastic skull, a couple real human bones, and a stack of graded papers. He toes off his shoes just so Mr. Franceschi won't have to fight with them.

When he returns, Mr. Franceschi steps in front of Max and places his hands carefully on his thighs, nudging them apart a bit. Max obliges and Mr. Franceschi grabs his hips, pulling him to the edge of the counter and their hips kind of press together and Max's breath hitches.

“Mr. Franceschi,” he whispers.

Mr. Franceschi kisses Max before he can really reply, and this is so wrong in a million different ways but he's about to be fucked on a desk by his ridiculously hot physiology teacher so at the same time he doesn't really give a shit. But with the way Mr. Franceschi's mouth is going at Max's neck he can't help but gasp and pull him closer. Max's fingers find the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with shaky fingers as Mr. Franceschi pushes up at Max's shirt and Max lets him take it off. Max doesn't even get Mr. Franceschi's shirt all the way off, just rips the front open and grabs his belt buckle.

“Mr. Franceschi,” Max says again, more whiny this time, and Mr. Franceschi makes a noise.

“You can call me Josh,” he says, but Max quickly shakes his head.

“It feels dirtier calling you Mr. Franceschi,” he says, and his teacher smirks.

“So you're dirty then,” he says, and if Max wasn't hard before then he is now. He nods. “Good.” Mr. Franceschi undoes Max's belt and pulls his jeans off, accidentally staring a bit. Well then. Max is... large. Max blushes. “Fuck,” Mr. Franceschi whispers, running his hand along Max's length through his boxers, and Max's breath shakes. He's wanted this for so long and it's finally happening and oh god why is Mr. Franceschi getting on his knees.

“Fuck,” Max says, watching him pull his boxers off, and there he is naked on his physiology teacher's front counter and about to get his dick sucked by said physiology teacher and Max is already leaking a bit of precum which would be embarrassing in any other situation but it's gone before Max can blush about it because Mr. Franceschi licks it right off the tip of his cock.

“Fuck,” Max says again, louder this time. Mr. Franceschi smiles and takes Max whole in his mouth, purring around him, and Max's fingers grab for something to hold onto but all he finds is the model of the plant cell which he accidentally knocks off the table. He moans.

Mr. Franceschi lifts his head, accidentally drooling a bit. He looks down at the cell model, which has broken off its stand, then looks at Max.

“Fuck,” Max says, “I'm sorry.”

Mr. Franceschi doesn't say anything. He just shoves his pants down around his ankles and Max gives him this look. Well. He hadn't exactly expected to see his teacher's dick but now he's looking at it and it's right in front of him and then Mr. Franceschi's grabbed onto Max's hips and wrenched him to the edge of the table, his cock all pressed up against Max's ass, and Max gasps.

“Fuck me,” he chokes out. He hadn't really meant to say it, per say, but now that it's out he doesn't mind it.

“Ask nicely,” Mr. Franceschi says, spitting in his hand. He rubs on Max's entrance and Max whimpers, trying not to jerk down on his fingers.

“Please,” Max whines. “Please just fuck me. I need the extra credit...”

“It's actually an automatic A on the final, if you recall,” Mr. Franceschi remarks, two fingers sinking into Max, and Max makes a noise. “But I guess that's close enough.”

“Do I still have to take the final?” Max asks, his breath shaking a bit as Mr. Franceschi curls his fingers.

“Depends,” he says.

“On what?”

“On how good you are.”

Max's hips buck and he moans as Mr. Franceschi's fingers press into his spot.

“I'll be good Mr. Franceschi,” Max pants. “Please. I'll be good.”

Mr. Franceschi seems to consider this briefly, sighing. He slides his fingers out and Max goes to make a noise of disapproval at the loss, but then there's something bigger inside him, and oh.

“Shit,” Mr. Franceschi says, anchoring his hands on the counter above Max's shoulders. Max whimpers a bit, tightening his legs around Mr. Franceschi's back, a hand resting on his exposed chest. He'd never taken his shirt the rest of the way off. Max appreciates this.

Max goes to say something but all that comes out is this embarrassingly loud moan as Mr. Franceschi starts just slamming into him, his eyes locked on Max's. Max grabs the collar of Mr. Franceschi's shirt, fisting his hands in it for purchase on something and he pulls hard, and his lips are smashed against his teacher's in another half of a second. Max moans loudly when Mr. Franceschi hits something in there particularly deep, his back arching off the counter.

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses into the kiss, and then Mr. Franceschi pulls out and manhandles Max over so he's on his stomach. Max makes a noise but then he's being filled up again and okay, much better. He grabs onto the opposite end of the table, feeling it shake underneath him every time Mr. Franceschi pounds into him. Max is a whimpering, panting, mess, his knuckles going white at the pull in his stomach. No. Not yet. They haven't even been fucking for two or three minutes. Then Mr. Franceschi's hand is on the side of Max's face, pinning his head down, and oh god. Max almost screams.

“Shut up,” Mr. Franceschi says, voice low, almost a growl. There were still people on campus.

“I can't,” Max chokes out. His hand goes to find something to squeeze onto like one of the bones or something but all it finds is the stack of graded papers and it goes spilling, homework worksheets floating across the floor, and if Max weren't having the greatest sex of his life right now he'd apologize, but he's pretty much forgotten how to speak in anything other than sentence fragments.

It's fairly obvious that Mr. Franceschi is beginning to feel the same way, because his fingernails dig into Max's scalp and he swears under his breath.

“Max,” he says, so low Max wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been listening to it.

“Mr. Franceschi, please,” Max whines.

And then Max is being shoved further up and Mr. Franceschi hitches his leg up on the table, knee on the edge of the counter, and his leverage is just hammering into that one. Fucking. Spot. Max can't even speak, can hardly even moan for that matter, so he's just resorted to begging under his breath.

“Please Mr. Franceschi I need to cum please I'll finish you off however you want me to please touch me fuck I'm so hard Jo-”

And just as Mr. Franceschi's first name is about to slip out, his hips stutter a bit and Max knows that familiar full feeling as Mr. Franceschi cums inside of him. Max moans softly, just sighing and then gasping when there's a rough hand jerking him off, and it's only about thirty seconds of that before Max is exploding all over the side of the desk, making these high little whimpering noises as he comes down, feeling his teacher pull out, and he slumps into the table a bit. He lets his eyes slide shut and he silently and appreciatively listens to Mr. Franceschi dress.

“Max, get up,” he says. Max kind of rolls over and slides off the table, getting his boxers and looking over as his teacher is scrubbing the side of the desk off with a wet paper towel. Max blushes, dressing himself back up quickly, and by the time he's all dressed again his teacher is picking up the broken cell model and snapping it back into place. The papers, however...

“I-” Max stutters, going to apologize, but Mr. Franceschi gives him that teacher look and he closes his mouth.

“I had those papers alphabetized, Max,” Mr. Franceschi says. Max swallows dryly, his throat tight. He goes to say something else but he's cut off. “Guess I'm just going to have to assign you a detention. Back here after school tomorrow.” Max nods obediently, grabbing his bag. “Oh, and...” Mr. Franceschi bites his lip. “Wear those jeans again.”


End file.
